


Single

by TheSweetestThing



Category: The Spanish Princess (TV), The Tudors (TV)
Genre: F/M, Flirting, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:48:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27089644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSweetestThing/pseuds/TheSweetestThing
Summary: Here is England’s princess in all her liveliness, divulging state secrets to her – what? Special friend? Open admirer?
Relationships: Charles Brandon/Mary Tudor of France
Comments: 8
Kudos: 38





	Single

**Author's Note:**

> Watching season 2 of The Spanish Princess and felt inspired to dig out an old draft and tweak it a bit
> 
> Title comes from the song by The Neighbourhood, which is a total mood for them <3

The Mantuan horses are beautiful.

Their glossy coats are shined to perfection, the deep hues of grey, bay and gold gleaming in the sunlight filtering in through the open stable doors. Their dark eyes are intelligent, framed by such long, delicate, lashes they rival the prettiest damsels at court, and they gallop faster than any palfrey in the king of England's collection.

“His Grace is delighted to accept the Marquis of Mantua's gift." Charles Brandon runs his hand through the mane of a handsome stallion, his hair as fine as silk. "Governatore here especially pleased him.”

“Governatore is a beauty.” Giovanni Ratto agrees. “My master will be delighted to hear of his joy.”

"And what does he want in return?" 

"Nothing but the king's love." 

Charles scrutinizes him closely in the quiet of the stables. They are in his domain, however small, and he had brought him here in the knowledge they would not be overheard by any person of importance.

He should have known better. 

He hears her laughter floating in through the open door long before she makes her entrance, and he can no longer focus on questioning the foreign servant when his body is taut with anticipation. 

Bright eyed and beautiful, Mary walks airily around the corner to him, arm in arm with Jane Popincourt. Her gable hood has been purposefully lost, so her red hair falls freely around her in a cloud of crimson. One curl slips lazily over her shoulder as she comes to a graceful stop before them. 

_Princess Mary,_ Charles reminds himself.

She is always a princess before she is Mary – but lately, he seems to be forgetting that crucial distinction more and more.

“Your Highness.” Charles murmurs, sinking into a bow. Beside him, Giovanni echoes his courtesies.

“Charles. Mr Ratto." She turns to the horse trainer, smiling as they straighten. "I trust the Duke of Suffolk is treating you well?”

“Indeed. He is very kind.”

“He is.” Mary agrees. “And I must steal him away for a moment.”

Leaving Jane to entertain their guest, Charles pads after her obediently as she leads him out to the courtyard. 

“What do you wish to talk of, princess?” He inquires.

In the dappled shadows of an ivy covered wall, Mary turns to him. 

“Charles.” Her eyes are serious. “I must confide in you something of the utmost secrecy. No one must know I have told you – not even my brother.”

“I gather you’re not supposed to tell me then.” A hint of a smile plays around Charles’s mouth.

Of course she would tell him matters of great importance and force him to withhold it from his king.

“No.” She admits. “But I must tell _someone –_ and who else better?”

“Out with it then.” Charles says, outright amused now.

Here is England’s princess in all her liveliness, divulging state secrets to her – what? Special friend? Open admirer? 

With another quick look around, she leans in closer. Her breath tickles his ear as he lowers his head to keep her confidence.

“I am no longer engaged to the Prince of Castile!”

It takes him a second to register the words, to hear the triumph lacing her tone. By then she has already straightened, smiling. Mary, no longer engaged…

“Henry has broken your betrothal?”

Charles himself is no stranger to such a thing, but after the mess of his own matrimonial affairs he assumed his best friend would be wise enough to avoid committing similar offences. Especially when said best friend is the king of England, whose jilted families are emperors and princes, not minor nobles of little fortune.

“Yes! Isn’t it the most glorious news?” She sighs. “No longer will I need to gaze upon that unflattering portrait and pretend to love it.” 

Charles frowns. “Margaret of Savoy will not take kindly to such an act. I pray she does not retaliate.”

“Let them!” Mary says grandly. “We beat the French, we could beat Austria easily. But she will not. They do not want me, Charles." 

She does not look mournful at the fact, and nor should she, but if the court were to see her barefaced joy at such a perceived slight…

“You could _try_ looking downcast.” 

“Ah, but that is the fun of it! No one is to know for weeks and weeks, until Harry has it sorted properly with Wolsey... and I am an expert at the masque, am I not?”

Wolsey is an efficient man, and will swiftly strangle any loopholes. It must be truly set in stone, then. No going back.

“I can carry on as if life were the same… but it is not!” She beams. “I am free!”

For how long? Surely King Henry will have another marriage lined up for her, a replacement to outshine the Castilian match and throw focus on their poor behaviour?

Mary is still talking blithely of masques and feasts and dances as if she can remain in England unwed… but that is no future for a young, attractive princess. Unless she swears herself to a convent Charles sees no way she will remain single. As far as he is concerned it is only a matter of who and when, and none of the options involve a recently ennobled Englishman.

“Who are you to marry instead?”

Between spirited ideas of festivities, Mary pauses.

Is that bitterness he glimpses taking shape in her stormy eyes? Whatever the heated emotion, it makes his skin prickle, his mouth dry. She cannot possibly hate him for asking the simple truth. She has always admired his honesty.

“We will not think about such things now.” She says determinedly.

Her hand creeps towards him, one slim little finger twining around his calloused one. Her skin is warm, but the sliver of contact leaves him shivering in the sun.

“Princess…” He whispers. “ _Mary._ ”

It is a dangerous game they both play, but around her his common sense seems to fail him. His finger tightens around hers even as she leans in closer. 

She's been in the sun longer than her old governess, Lady Guildford, would allow, for the heat has brought out a scattering of golden brown freckles across her face. He is seized with a sudden longing to count and kiss each one dotted on her round cheeks, on the bridge of her nose, on the corner of her top lip...

“You know who I would choose.”

There is no point entertaining the thoughts of marrying Mary – a _p_ _rincess._ For a man like him, the knowledge of her affection alone must keep him warm at night. What Mary talks of is impossible; a dream that swiftly disintegrates in daylight. 

"A man unsuitable." 

Their fingers are still delicately, tightly, entwined. Anyone could glimpse them now, knotted together like lovers, but Charles can’t bring himself to pull away.

* * *

Mary shakes her head firmly, determined to make Charles see sense. 

Beneath his charming bravado, there lies a man forever conscious of his status - but what a status it is! His father was the standard bearer to Mary's in the battle that crowned Henry Tudor king, and Charles has the same willingness to give his life for his monarch. His blood might not be blue, but his lineage is one of pure loyalty, and as precious as gold amongst the nobles of England. 

He has earned his dukedom, not through mere birth right, but by hard work and valour in battle. Her hero of Tournai, who had captured a gatehouse and made a fool of Margaret of Savoy. He continues to still, for only days ago he carried a lance for her while wearing Mary’s favour pinned to his chest. He had triumphed over every opponent, and given her his mummers attire as a trophy. She has the cloth of silver beard in her bedchamber even now - though it pales in comparison to the real one. 

She looks at him admiringly, for how can she not love him? 

"My Lancelot."

He smiles at the secret nickname despite his misgivings, the dimple in his left cheek making a welcome appearance, and Mary melts.

It would be so easy to press her soft lips against his chapped ones, to let his calloused hands caress her cheeks and explore her body. She shivers with delight, drunk on the mere presence of him. 

"I suppose," She breathes, "now my first kiss shall not be with Charles, as I imagined." 

His eyes bore into hers, dark and intense. He turns the same gaze but muted on the ladies at court, to her great amusement, but hit with the full force of it she is rendered speechless, her shallow breath caught. She is blinded by his beauty, by the sun that shines on his thick curls turning them a dozen shades of chestnut brown. They tickle the nape of his neck as it lowers ever closer towards her, and she instinctively leans in, wobbling on her tiptoes. 

"A shame." His voice is ragged, breath hot on her cheek. "Did you imagine it often?"

She nods dizzily, caught up in the warm weight of his hand wrapped tight around hers, his familiar scent of stables and spices he wears better than any perfume. 

"All the time." She sighs.

And, overcome with their mutual yearning, Charles swiftly draws their entwined hands up to his mouth.

The whiskers of his beard caress her knuckles as he kisses them, dragging his lips over her skin deeply and reverently. Once, twice, half a dozen times in his ardour, before he gently flips her wrist to press his mouth against her thrumming pulse. It triples in speed underneath his touch, and she sways, body limp with delight. 

He withdraws quickly, lest he be seen by any member of court, but the touch of him lingers long after. She stares at him intently, drinking in every inch of his face, and knows in her heart she will never let him go. There might be seas between them, but there remains a connection years in the making that will never break. The two of them are the lynchpins of the royal family, the smiling sister and the trusted servant. He takes care of the king, and she the queen, and together they look after each other.

She will never forget the new year of 1511, when the king's little sister was quite forgotten by the court enamoured with the birth of their new heir. Swept up in festivities, only Charles had noticed her at the jousts on that sunny midwinter day. All talk was of Queen Katherine and Sir Loyal Heart and little Prince Hal... and then her brother's best friend had gone down on bended knee to beg for her favour. Her eyes had welled with tears as he swore to win for her, and she blinks them back now, a lump in her throat.

Sir Loyal Heart had retired that day, but Lancelot remains forever golden. 

"Think me foolish Charles, but I live in hope."

She has another secret too, one so precious she dare not divulge even to him. A suspicion, in truth, for Kate has not confirmed it, but Mary noticed her dear sister forsaking certain foods while feasting in her chamber the week prior. With a babe in the cradle Mary's own place in the succession will slip down, and her hand will be less desirable. Perhaps more fitting for a duke...

If a prince were to marry a noblewoman the people would agree it was a fine match. Had John of Gaunt, founder of her bloodline, not married a duchess? And Mary's maternal grandfather, King Edward IV had married his own subject, had he not? Elizabeth Woodville had been wed to the enemy before she became queen of England, and Charles is nothing but faithful. 

"One way or another, I will get Henry to agree to our marriage." 

When he smiles gently, his eyes crinkle at the corners. 

"I am sure His Grace will agree to go riding this afternoon, if you were to ask."

He rebuffs her in the kindliest manner, so loving and encouraging in his refusal to believe. No doubt he thinks her naïve, but she will make him see he is mistaken. He wants this as much as her, for he does not even bring up his own marriage contract to Elizabeth Lisle as a potential impediment. She is entirely forgotten, as unimportant to them as Charles of Castile. There is only Henry to convince, and how better than several long, languid hours enjoying themselves together? 

"Yes," Mary agrees, with a pointed look, "especially if his Master of Horse joins us." 

"I cannot deny my king... nor my Guinevere." 

She laughs loudly with pure unbridled joy, for he never fails to play along despite his embarrassment; Mary thinks secretly he enjoys it. His cheeks are rosy pink as he steps hastily back, eyes drifting over the top of Mary's head. A slight frown mars his fine features, and Mary turns to see the duke of Norfolk watching them curiously from where he lingers in the courtyard with his lathered stallion. She doubts he can hear them from such a distance, but Charles immediately turns his thoughts back to work. 

"I have to return to my duties."

"Of course."

They walk slowly back the way she led him, back to the the stables where Giovanni and Jane wait ignorant to their stolen moment.

Her and Charles are so close their clammy hands brush together a thousand tiny times as they walk, lying innocently against her velvet skirts. 

Mary is reluctant to leave him, but contents herself by looking forward to an afternoon which promises to be well spent. They will ride through the streams and fields and forests and in the shade of bountiful fruit trees share ripe apples, the juice sticky on her chin. They will talk and jape and laugh beneath the summer sun, and she will bask in his fevered gaze no amount of wine can quench. 

She will banish all thoughts of her uncertain future, and focus only on that which she knows beyond doubt; that Charles Brandon loves her, and she him, and somehow, some way, Mary will marry the man she chooses.

**Author's Note:**

> The conversation with Charles and the Mantuan ambassador is taken from this letter by Giovanni Ratto to the Marquis of Mantua, 30th June 1514 - _"The King told him that in his days he had never ridden a horse that pleased him more than Governatore. [Charles Brandon] who was the first person about the King, has been charged with the despatch of his business, and asked him in secret what the Marquis would like. Replied, Nothing but the King's love."_


End file.
